


The Barbed Wire Puppet Master

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 + 1 'Emergency' calls from Ian's phone to Mickey's</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barbed Wire Puppet Master

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a while but I needed to write a fic for this couple because they are my absolute favourite canon couple to ever exist <3 Just saying my writing may be a little rusty and I try my best to keep everyone in character but people will probably be OOC anyway :d  
> WARNING: Tons of angst, lots of mental-health issues involving Ian's bipolar disorder, suicide of a major character (lips sealed on who... but I will say it isn't Lip)

When Ian stopped taking his pills and stole a car during a bout of intense mania, Mickey was the one who went to get him. He found the man he loved two hundred miles away after one of Lip’s friends traced a phone call. Ian was lying on the sidewalk, tears rimming his blank eyes red as he looked up at Mickey and tried a smile that failed miserably. The car ride home was filled with a silence that made Mickey’s heart ache, and all he wanted to do take this fucking thing—this sickness that turned the gentle, predictable redhead into someone bitter and hurting—and do a number on it so bad Hitler would be shocked. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

“Ian,” Mickey started, his face drawing up in a grimace as he glanced over at the hollowed out shell of Ian, who was laying weakly against the window, tracing circles in the glass over and over as if to enforce the idea that he could never get out of one. That he was stuck in this vicious fucking mania-depression shit for the rest of his life.

“I can’t…” Ian made to interrupt Mickey but his voice broke on the word can’t and he had to close his eyes to hold in the pain, pressing his lips together before trying again. “I can’t control it, Mickey.”

Why the fuck wasn’t there someone he could whale on to give his favourite Gallagher the life he deserved? He had to look away so Ian wouldn’t mistake the look of disgust at the admission a look for Ian himself. Mickey could never be disgusted with Ian. He was only disgusted with himself for not being able to fix this. Ian said he wasn’t broken, but if he wasn’t broken that only meant he was breaking every fucking time this happened.

“It’s like… you know those puppet masters with the strings?” Mickey reached for a smile to give to Ian, found one lurking in the memory of the day at the baseball field, and offered it to him with a nod. “I kind of feel like one of those is pulling on my strings. Except my strings are barbed wire under my skin, and if I don’t follow their pull I get all sliced up. That’s all.”

The smile disappeared as Ian closed his eyes tiredly, his hand dropping from the window as if the mere effort of even pressing it against the glass was too much. Mickey wished he would’ve let the smiling, freckled kid press it against the window when they’d had the chance in juvie.

Mickey reached up with one hand and pressed it to the side of Ian’s face, skimming a thumb over a delicate eyelid, a cheekbone that became more pronounced every time Ian stopped taking his pills, and lips that carried memories of kisses both stolen and given.

“If someone’s pulling your strings, Gallagher, you’d better fucking call me so I can make sure they don’t pull you into a goddamn shark pit or something, you got that?”

Ian made a noise in his throat that may have been an agreement as Mickey shuffled a little, taking his hand away from Ian’s face only to pull a phone from his pocket and press the cool metal box into Ian’s limp hand. After a second, Ian’s fingers curled around the phone. After a minute, although his eyes were still closed, he was clutching it as if it were a lifeline and he would be destroyed if he let go.

 

1.

* * *

 

It was three o’clock in the morning when Mickey’s phone rang.

 

_Here I go again on my own_

_Goin' down the only road I've ever known_

_Like a drifter I was born to walk alone_

 

“What the fuck?” Mickey swung out of bed blearily, recognizing the song but not the person with whom it was associated. When he saw “Your Favourite Carrot Top” on the screen, he only had time for a grimace at the irony of the ringtone Ian had set for himself before he answered, worry coiling in the pit of his stomach.

“Gallagher? You there?” On the other end, all he heard was hoarse, rapid breathing, and the worry grew until it was in his throat and he had to swallow it down before he could speak again. “Gallagher? …Ian? Are you okay? Come on, please answer.” He forced his voice to be as calm as it could, which wasn’t very fucking calm.

He thought he heard the rustle of some sort of material before a breathy voice whispered out through the phone, caressing his worry, but also other parts of his body that he couldn’t help. “I need you, Mickey. It’s… it’s an emergency. Please help me. I can’t…”

Mickey was already through the house, pausing only for a second to slip on shoes before he ran out into the night and his feet began pounding the road, the night air cool against his shirtless skin—who knew what Ian could do in the time it would take for him to find a shirt and throw it on.

“Okay, stay on the line. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Even at this time, South Side was still bustling with people who were awake—drunkards and homeless people, some of whom glanced up as Mickey ran by, some who didn’t give shit. Mickey thought he passed Frank, the piece of shit alcoholic who’d hit Ian more than once, but he didn’t even give it a spare thought—all of his attention was focused on what Ian would say next.

“Hurry.” The phone line clicked and Mickey held it to his ear until it crackled with white noise, his knuckles clenched so hard they were the colour of milk. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mickey had never been the runner Ian was, but even when his lungs sputtered for more air and his legs burned, he pushed himself as fast as he could go. He’d never had a reason to quit smoking before, but if he didn’t get to Ian in time and the kid did something irreparable because Mickey’s lungs were too fucking addled with tar to go faster, Mickey’d burn his own arms with cigarettes in punishment.

“IAN GALLAGHER!” The shout tore from his raspy lungs, sounding at once like the time he’d been looking to kick Ian’s ass for ‘attacking Mandy’ but also different, interlaced with emotion he never thought he’d feel for anyone. His eyebrows were knitted together as he glanced up at the window going into the room Ian shared with some other Gallagher brothers, the worry at not seeing any lights on fueling him as he burst into the house, running past a shocked Fiona who was tangled up with some guy—Mickey didn’t see who—and taking the stairs two at a time. Fuck his short legs or he would’ve taken them four or five.

“Ian, Ian, shit, don’t…” He burst into the room, his eyes prepared for the worst. He’d expected Ian lying blankly in bed, or rocking back and forth on the floor, or, or… well, he’d expected worse. He hadn’t expected Ian to be pacing back and forth in the room devoid of anyone except him, and he hadn’t expected Ian’s face to light up like a kid at Christmas when Mickey walked in.

“Hey. You got here fast.” Ian was at Mickey’s side in two strides, impatiently tugging him into the room and kicking the door shut behind him, grinning wildly as he took in Mickey’s dishevelled appearance. “Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” Mickey blinked in shock as Ian leaned down, pressing his mouth to Mickey’s with a hungry need, only a hint of desperation clinging to the end of the kiss as Ian leaned back and gave Mickey a questioning look, as if wondering why Mickey hadn’t stripped yet.

“Gallagher… you… haa… you fucking said… it was an emergency…” Mickey was struggling to breathe properly as a warm wave of relief washed over him that was so great he almost fell over. Ian reached out, cupping Mickey’s face and tilting his forehead forward to rest it on Mickey’s. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad. I just really needed you. Carl and Liam aren’t here and I’m wired. I didn’t think you’d mind. Do you mind? Fuck, I’m sorry, Mick. I love you and I just started really missing you and I wanted you so I thought that—”

“So shut up and fuck me, Firecrotch.” Mickey had regained his breath and now he gave Ian an impish smile as Ian’s babbling words died away to be replaced by a feral grin. He shoved Mickey against the wall, his pace fast and almost anxious, and Mickey responded as enthusiastically as he could. But it was difficult, because there was something… off about the whole thing. Ian was never this desperate. He’d never kissed Mickey as if he were drowning and Mickey were the only thing keeping him alive. He was fucking manic. But if Mickey said anything, it could set Ian off, and so as they fucked—because the way Ian was pounding him, this sure as shit couldn’t be called making love—he wondered if letting Ian have his way was healthy. He wondered if he was enforcing bad behaviour positively or some shit Ian’s psychiatrist had said. Yet there was no way he’d ever deny Ian of something as simple as a fuck. He just couldn’t.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe going to Ian whenever Ian called wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t know. He just didn’t fucking know.

 

2.

* * *

 

The second phone call was in the morning around nine, when Mickey was sitting on his porch, drinking a warm beer and picking at a full box of cigarettes, which he’d had since the desperate night at Ian’s. Which he hadn’t smoked in almost a full month, because if Ian needed him, he needed his lungs. Going cold turkey was really fucking with him, but he kept reminding himself that it was nothing compared to having unpredictable mood swings every few weeks, which left you on the floor every time.

 

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_

_You make me happy when skies are grey_

_You'll never know dear, how much I love you_

_Please don't take my sunshine away_

 

“The hell is this gay shit?” Mickey scowled as he searched the porch, finding his phone buried in the pockets of a discarded pair of jeans. He held it out, squinting at it. Firecrotch. Well shit, Ian had changed his contact information again. This time there was only a flash of worry, because it _was_ the morning, and it was a reasonable time at that.

“Mickey!”

Ian’s voice belted through phone before Mickey even had a chance to say anything, and Mickey had to hold it away from his ear or risk hearing damage, the kid was that fucking loud. He brought the phone back to his ear, taking a warm sip of beer before responding, figuring Ian was manic and just wanted to hear his voice. Ian did that a lot.

“Everything good, Gallagher?” Mickey listened to Ian yell something over his shoulder about who he was talking to before Ian’s voice dropped to a hush.

“No. No. No it’s not. God, this always happens…” Mickey slowly took the beer from his lips, setting it down and standing up, the fleeting worry that constantly chewed at his heart blowing up into full blown anxiety. “Mickey, it’s an emergency. Can you come? Please?”

“Yeah, of course. This time, stay on the fucking line and tell me what’s going on, though.” Mickey was running once again, and he swore he should just buy a house closer to Ian so he could be there immediately. There was long pause on the line, to which Mickey prompted, “Gallagher?” and he heard Ian draw in a shaky breath.

“Right. The cops are coming for me. They’re… will I have to go back to the hospital? Oh God, I don’t think I could… I didn’t even mean anything. I just. Remember the baseball field? We should go back there. Hide out, you know.” Mickey listened to the jerky speech, biting down hard on his lip at the despair in Ian’s voice and pushing his lungs more. The whole not-smoking thing helped, but only a little.

“The cops aren’t going to get you, Ian. They’d have to come through me. Listen, it’s going to be okay.” And then Mickey was there, and the door to the Gallagher house was open, and Ian was sitting in the grass, his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes closed as he tilted his head into the phone Mickey had given him. Mickey slowed, jogging over cautiously, pretending there wasn’t a lump in his throat at Ian’s bedraggled, pale appearance.

“Hey, hey.” He crouched in front of Ian, taking Ian’s face in his hands as Ian slowly lowered the phone and looked at him almost as if he didn’t recognize him, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated. “What’s wrong? Why would the cops be after you?”

Ian lowered his eyes tiredly, and Mickey could practically feel him slipping away, retreating somewhere deep inside himself. Somewhere dark, where the light he’d always had before Mickey’s marriage couldn’t reach.

“I was smoking weed on the front lawn and one of them drove by. He’s going to come back. I’m sorry, I lied about hiding out. Fi is at work and I was supposed to make the kids breakfast, but I wanted a joint first. Now I’ll be arrested. Can you look after Carl and Debbie and Liam?” Ian’s eyes were misted over as he looked back up in time to catch Mickey’s brows knit together in a frustrated sadness.

“Did you even eat yet, Gallagher? Fuck, why did Fiona leave you alone?” He looked up to see the three youngest Gallaghers gathered at the door, watching their brother with wide-eyed curiosity. Only the oldest girl seemed to really grasp what was happening. Mickey gave her his most ferocious scowl. “The fuck are you looking at? Get back in there and make your brothers breakfast. I’ve got this.”

Carl rolled his eyes and left with Liam, but Debbie crossed the steps, motioning for Mickey to come talk to her. He cast a worried glance at Ian, but the redhead wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so he walked over to her with a glare. “What?”

“Fiona thought Ian was taking his pills. I found the whole bottle in the trash today. Is he going to be alright?” Mickey was preparing himself to yell at her, that no, Ian would not be fucking alright, that being alright would be more fucking weird than not being alright, but when he saw the fear in her eyes, he lost his anger and felt his shoulders drop.

“I don’t know. I just—I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing, okay? I’m trying but I don’t think I’m even helping him. I’m… Jesus, I’m fucking sorry. Can you just go look after your brothers?”

Debbie pressed her lips together, before looking up once more, the Gallagher steel Mickey’d often seen in her older sister’s gaze pinning him in his place. “Ian loves you. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I think you’re really helping him.”

Mickey wasn’t used to feeling or showing gratitude, so he just muttered, “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” and didn’t look up until she was gone. Then he made his way over to Ian and leaned down to wrap an arm around his lover’s slender waist, gingerly easing him up.

“Come on, Gallagher. We need to fatten you up. I’ll make you whatever the fuck you want, like even eggs or some other expensive shit.”

Ian’s head hit Mickey’s shoulder as he let Mickey shuffle him into the kitchen, and his voice was barely audible as his breath warmed Mickey’s neck. “I’m not hungry.”

But Mickey forced him to eat anyway, because anyone could see Ian was wasting away. He thought it might be the right thing to do. But he still just wasn’t sure.

 

 3.

* * *

 

The third phone call was from a Gallagher, but not a red haired one.

 

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_

_Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion_

_I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high_

 

Mickey was getting used to Ian doing whatever the fuck he wanted with ringtones and contact information, but that didn’t mean he thought it was funny when he saw that this time Ian had changed it to ‘YoUr FUckED uP BItCh’ after a particularly long bout of mania involving too many other guys and drugs. He consulted his calendar, the one he’d made and stuck beside his bed like some nerdy little shit that had whether Ian was depressed or manic. He’d started writing Ian’s moods down to see if he could predict them. So far, his luck was shit; there was no pattern.

Today, though, Ian was manic. The cycle had only started two days ago, and his mania always lasted at least a week.

“Hey. How are you?” Despite everything that had happened—the fights they’d had, the times he’d held Ian’s head while the redhead vomited too many pills, the times Ian had held Mickey while Mickey himself sobbed because Ian just wasn’t understanding the problem—despite it all, Mickey’s voice was still laced with warmth and love when he answered that afternoon. But the voice that yelled through the phone wasn’t Ian’s.

“Mickey where the _fuck_ is Ian?” Anxiety and worry, as usual. It was becoming Mickey’s permanent state of mind whenever he wasn’t with Ian. He’d been talking to Fiona lately, and they’d both decided that he and Ian should live together, no matter whose house it was at.

“What are you talking about, Gallagher? He isn’t with you?” Mickey left the Kash and Grab, his voice not quite reaching the Milkovich cruelty; it was too tinged with unease. If Lip didn’t know where Ian was and Mickey didn’t know where Ian was, things were going to get out of control.

“I have no fucking idea where he is, but he left a note saying he was with you. Along with a full bottle of pills, so I was willing to bet he may possibly have been lying. Looks like I was right. Shit, this is one time I really wish I wasn’t.” Mickey completely agreed with the sentiment, as all of Ian’s usual haunts swirled through his mind. Kash and Grab was off the list. So he could check a few gay bars, some of the places they’d fucked, the army sign up place… No. Ian wouldn’t have left a note if he was just going to spend a couple of hours somewhere.

“Get everyone out and looking for him, then. He’s probably trying to steal a fucking car.”

“Already on it. You wanna go check down by your house? Everyone’s covering a different part and your block is the only one left.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. And Mickey?” 

“What?” 

“…Thanks for being there for my little brother. I once told him he should find someone else, but… well, I guess you might not be so bad for him after all.” 

Mickey blinked in surprise as Lip ended the phone call before they were both forced to get sentimental. He’d never expected the lazy genius to praise him. Maybe he was doing something right after all. 

***

“IAN GALLAGHER!”

Mickey cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted the name again, while some of the bums he and his brothers rounded up helped search. So far, no one had reported a car missing—Lip had a machine that monitored police calls and Kev was listening to it and staying in touch. With so many people out looking for him, Ian should’ve turned up ages ago. But it had been three hours and no one had caught hide nor tail of the kid with the most beautiful smile on the block. 

“Mickey!”

Mickey turned to see Mandy jogging up to him, her face flushed and tears gathered in her eyes as she held out a familiar shirt. Mickey felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Like his father had returned home, taken a pistol, stuck it in his gut and pulled the trigger.

“Mick,” Mandy’s voice broke as she reached him, shaking her head, her fingers clutching Ian’s shirt. “We found this on one of the bridges. The rest of Ian’s clothes…” She shook her head, looking away as she shoved Ian’s shirt into Mickey’s hands and broke into sobs. He saw Lip coming up from behind her to ask if they’d found anything, and when he saw the blank look on Mickey’s face as Mickey held the shirt, he dropped to his knees. Just dropped, right there on the pavement, and stared at the road as if he’d never seen it before.

“What, Mandy?” Mickey’s voice was low, quiet in a way it’d never been before. There was something wrong. He felt like his heart had been stuffed full of cotton, that his feelings and the outside world were muffled. There was something wrong with him. He brought the shirt up to his chest and clutched it protectively, taking a step back toward the house. 

“T-they were… in the r-river…” Mandy’s voice was hardly recognizable through her sobs. Mickey turned and, ignoring everyone, went home. Went to his house. Didn’t really hear Kev, who’d shown up as he was leaving, saying the cops would drag the river. He needed to go. He needed to go to the river and… and… 

He kicked open the door to his room, went inside, kicked the door shut behind him. Put his back against the wall, sank to the ground. Brought Ian’s shirt up to his face. It carried Ian’s scent, making him think of the first time they’d gotten together in this room. The time Ian had come to his house, cute, freckled face scrunched up in pain as he said “I need you.” The time Ian had grinned at him through the glass and Mickey realized what it was to have someone wait for you. The fucking time Ian came to see Mickey after his father and Svetlana, and Ian was worried about him, not angry. When Ian let Mickey beat him so he could feel better, and Mickey kept thinking through it all, why why why would you do this for me, why. And why why why would you fucking leave me alone you piece of shit, I hate you I hate you, oh God I love you so much why would you leave me Ian, _I love you_.

“Mick? What’s wrong?”

Mickey looked up from the huge, gasping sobs that had suddenly come out of nowhere. And. Ian. Gallagher. Was. On. His. Bed. 

“FUCK YOU!” 

The scream tore from Mickey’s lips even as he dropped Ian’s shirt and launched himself at the shocked-looking boy, wrapping his arms around Ian’s tall, too-skinny body, and clutching him like his life depended on it. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuckyou, fuckyoufuckyou.” He pressed his face into Ian’s hair, breathing him in, running his hands over Ian’s face and naked back and arms and hands until he twined their fingers together. In his mania, Ian had stripped for no conceivable reason, and waited naked in Mickey’s bed to surprise him. Except he was bipolar with no predictable pattern. Except he’d tried to kill himself before. Except he’d chosen to strip on a goddamn piece of shit bridge and fuck with Mickey’s heart. “I thought you were fucking dead, you piece of shit.” 

“Mickey, I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I would never do that, though. Mick? Mick, I love you, and I’m sorry.” Mickey couldn’t even respond to Ian’s babbling. He’d never been so furious in his entire life, and yet he’d never been so relieved. He leaned back, looking into Ian’s eyes, and for a second he saw the old Ian, the one who wasn’t being controlled by the puppet master named Bipolar. 

“Ian, you _have_ to take your pills. Please. I’m begging you. Jesus, if I lost you… I just can’t. Okay, Ian? _I can’t keep doing this_!” He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Like he was giving Ian an ultimatum—me or a drug free life. He shook his head, wiping his eyes angrily and opening his mouth to tell Ian he didn’t mean it like that, but Ian surprised him with a long kiss that was sweeter than it had been in months.

“Okay, Mick. I’ll take my meds. I love you.” 

Mickey looked at him, at the clear eyes and gentle, sad smile, and tried to tell himself that Ian really meant it this time. That he really would keep taking his medication and he wouldn’t stop because he felt fantastic the next time he was manic. As he took his clothes off and tangled himself with Ian—not fucking, just lying there skin to skin—he decided that right now, in this moment, he would forget it all and just enjoy being with his boyfriend. It was selfish not to tell anyone Ian was with him right now, but he couldn’t face the outside world yet. 

It was probably wrong and stupid and selfish. He probably wasn’t even helping Ian—he was making things worse. But at that moment, he really didn’t give a shit, because he felt wondrously, barf-inducingly _whole_.

4.

* * *

 

Mickey had started living at the Gallagher house and sleeping with Ian, but he was at his old house talking to Mandy when his phone went off.

 

_You pray to stars that can help you get by_

_And all at once you forget to try_

 

“Ian?” Mandy asked as Mickey searched his pockets, his brow wrinkling at Ian’s song of choice. 

 

_I'd go there if you let me,_

_they're never gonna find me now_

_My life is always empty_

_and in and out of doubt_

 

“He chose a fucking depressing song this time, that’s for sure,” Mickey murmured, thinking of how odd Ian had been acting the last couple of days. For the past four months, Ian had been true to his word and he’d taken his medication. It had been harder than Mickey’d thought—although there were good days and bad days, Ian was zoned out for the most part and he often had problems getting it up. But even though Ian got beyond frustrated with his flat mood and practically nonexistent sex drive, he was safe and well and Mickey didn’t mind taking extra time making Firecrotch squirm with his mouth. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Terry he loved sucking Ian’s dick. 

 

_You're not coming back for me, these things they will never be_

_I'm so used to being wrong, so put me where I belong_

 

“Fuck, Ian, why’d you pick such a shitty song?” were the first words out of Mickey’s mouth when he answered ‘Future Husband’s’ call. That hadn’t been Ian—that’d been pure Lip, because he liked laughing at Mickey spluttering at the word husband. Of course, Mickey could’ve changed it but… but shut the fuck up. 

“It’s Fi, Mickey. We have an emergency.” 

Mickey wished his phone would never ring again, because every time it did, it was bad news. Mandy raised her eyebrows as Mickey bolted for the door—at least he was getting better at running. 

“Ian?”

“Yeah. He’s been off his meds for a week and I have an important job interview. But he’s in a depression phase.”

Mickey shook his head despairingly, wondering why the ever living fuck his partner would stop taking his meds. It hadn’t been fantastic, but what they’d had was good enough. Mickey wouldn’t have given up even a flat, frustrated Ian for anything. Ian had to know that, right?

“It’s not his fault, Mick. Carl sold his pills at school to bring in some money and Ian didn’t want Carl to get onto my shit list so he didn’t say anything. Now they’re both on my shit list. Fuck, I can’t believe Ian didn’t say anything.” There was a long pause where Fiona sighed, and Mickey could practically hear her wondering when she’d lost the trust she’d built up with her second oldest brother. He was about to tell her that Ian also didn’t like the feeling of his meds, which was probably why he hadn’t told anyone, when he heard her take a deep breath and pull herself together. “I’m going to pick some up after work, but could you stay with him? Please?” 

“Fuck yeah. Did you even need to ask?”

Fiona muttered an exhausted thanks before hanging up and Mickey bolted the rest of the way so she could get to her interview on time and have time to pull herself together. She was getting more and more rundown, and he and Lip had talked about it. Lip was going to start stepping up to raise the kids and Mickey was looking at getting a house for him and Ian to live in. Things would be okay… if Ian ever learned to stop going off his meds.

***

“Hey, baby,” Mickey murmured, only half-joking as he slid into bed beside Ian. Ian was staring blankly at the wall, silent tears running down his cheeks. Fi said he hadn’t even gotten up that morning—it was one of the really bad ones.

Mickey leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss onto Ian’s forehead, leaning back as Ian rolled over and they came face-to-face.

“Mick?” Ian asked in a small voice as Mickey leaned forward, catching Ian’s tears with his lips. 

“Yeah, Gallagher?” 

“I… it’s just… you and I… never mind, it’s nothing,” Ian sighed, closing his eyes as Mickey leaned back, glad Ian’s eyes were closed so he wouldn’t have to see the spasm of pain cross Mickey’s face. He hated when Ian felt like he couldn’t tell him something—abso-fucking-lutely hated it.

“No, tell me. What is it?”

Heavy lidded, listless eyes opened, searching Mickey’s face for something. Whatever it was, apparently Ian didn’t find it—and apparently that was a good thing. He closed his eyes again. “I thought you might hate me. I’m not the same as I used to be. We can’t even…” He stopped and his sentence trailed off in a quiet little choke, but Mickey knew what he meant. It was no one’s fault, but when Ian was depressed, he always seemed to take it as his own fault.

“No matter what, I love you, Gallagher,” Mickey breathed, planting a kiss on Ian’s forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips. Then his throat. Then his chest. Then his stomach, and he heard Ian’s breath hitch in his throat. He smiled, nibbling his way down Ian’s stomach until he reached the top of Ian’s pants.

“Fi said it’s been a week, right? So let’s see what’s going on.” Mickey stripped Ian naked and then a slow smile grew across his face as he looked from Ian to his cock and back. “I like what’s going on, Gallagher. You’re fucking packing down there and I’d like a taste.” For the first time in months, Ian genuinely smiled. Maybe it was because he was coming out of his depression phase or maybe it was just the look on Mickey’s face, but they went four rounds that afternoon—from fucking loudly and obscenely (which made Lip yell and bang on the wall) to making love that was all sighs and murmured sweet nothings against each other’s lips. It was the best day they’d had in ages, and then Fi came home and gave Ian his pills.

Mickey wondered if taking the pills was the right thing. Or maybe Ian had been manic and trying to trick him by showing him there was nothing to be scared of in ‘depression phrases.’ He didn’t like thinking about that—Ian being that manipulative or him fucking up by making Ian drug himself. But he wondered anyway.

 5.

* * *

 

The fifth time was Ian himself, and it was actually one of his better days. It was one of the days where he seemed completely lucid and full of real emotion despite being on his meds. It was one of the days where Mickey thought the ginger was so fucking _cute_ and that was such a fucking stupid word that Mickey wanted to tear his hair out in embarrassment and, okay, maybe happiness.

 

_I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind_

_There was something so pleasant about that place._

_Even your emotions had an echo_

_In so much space_

 

“Oh that is so not fucking funny,” Mickey murmured before answering the phone. “Hey, lemme guess, you want some strawberry lube or some shit while I’m here so I can lick you off and literally taste the strawberry, Firecrotch?”

There was a pause on the line, and then a muffled laugh with such a light, clear tone that Mickey’s heart soared and he couldn’t help but smile like some giggly fucking schoolgirl. Ian’s contact information didn’t make him want to laugh any less—it was a long, lewd name that involved ginger roots going up asses and if Mickey thought about it for too long he’d literally shit his goddamn pants in laughter. There were never any days when he questioned whether or not he loved Ian, but there were days like this when he wondered how the living fuck it was even possible to love anyone so much. 

“Um, no. Actually I have an emergency.” Ian’s lighthearted tone stretched Mickey’s smile—it couldn’t be anything that dire or worrying. “I’m cooking for you but I’m out of flour.” 

Mickey glanced around the store, making sure no one was close enough to listen, before he ducked into an empty aisle and brought the phone closer to his lips, cradling it as he whispered, “What are you wearing?” 

Another laugh, and then, “Plaid shirt, skinny jeans, socks.” 

“You fucking—Although, I do love the way your ass looks in skinny jeans.” Mickey bit his lip to hold in his own laugh, leaning against cans of some vegetable sludge while he pictured Ian standing in their kitchen, the light filtering through the window and turning his hair all firey while he worked at the counter, his head tilted to cradle the phone into his neck. The overwhelming urge to get home and wrap his arms around Ian’s waist—which was now slender and graceful instead of skinny and sickly--roared up like a lion.

“Alright, I’ll bring you your flour. In return, maybe you could lose some of the clothes on my way home?” 

“Not a chance. I guess you’ll have to undress me yourself.” 

Mickey laughed and finished his shopping as quickly as he could, picking up flour and flowers. Okay, yes, he knew flowers were fucking stupid and embarrassing and he realized just how much after he bought them, but when he brought them home to Ian and Ian teased him like crazy, his annoyance faded away. He was happy. Ian was happy. Today was one of the good days, and he’d treasure it, no matter unsure the future was.

 

6 (+1).

* * *

 

The last time Ian ever called him on the phone was in the middle of the night again. Or maybe some people would consider it morning—what the fuck ever. He was lying in bed, sleeping, when suddenly the last song Ian would put on his phone blared into the quiet.

 

_Turn your face towards the sun_

_Let the shadows fall behind you_

_Don't look back, just carry on_

_And the shadows will never find you_  

 

He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he sat up, and he knew before he even noticed that Ian wasn’t lying beside him that something really, really bad had happened. He rolled over, his heart constricting at the fact that Ian’s side of the bed was cold. He snatched the phone and was on his feet in a second, his lips trembling as he whispered, “Hello?” 

“—key. …know what happened… You know it’s been— …over. –kill myself…” Ian’s voice sounded tinny through the speakers, and his words were broken up not only by the heaving sobs but by a strange gasping that rattled around and around through the phone. Mickey swallowed thickly. How had he thought that…? But Ian had been doing so fucking well! 

“Listen to me, Ian Gallagher.” 

“—tired, Mickey. I-I d-don’t… know… I can’t do this. Please, stop. Please! Oh God oh God ohgodohgod ohmyfuckinggod.” 

“Ian, baby, where are you?” 

“N-near… baseball f-field… —fuck…. Dying… can please—hurry.” 

The baseball field. This time Mickey didn’t even stop to grab his shoes—he ran harder and faster than he’d ever run before, praying to whoever the fuck stuck them here and made Ian bipolar, which was a shit thing to pray to because they’d done this to Ian, but whatever. Ian kept babbling, but the reception was shit and what he said wasn’t making sense anyway. The words blood everywhere and dying kept getting through again and again, like a hammer in Mickey’s mind hitting his brain over and over to urge him to go faster. 

“Don’t.” 

It was a repeat of that day when Ian left, and Mickey wasn’t going to get there in time again. 

“Ian, listen to me, from the first moment I saw your stupid little bitch ass smile, I knew I was fucked.”

Ian’s crying didn’t stop, but he did quiet down, his breathing turning raspier and raspier. Mickey ran for his life, for his love, for his own fucking soul because that’s what Ian’s death would cost him. Everything.

“You remember that time you came to my house and said you needed me? I was in a shit situation, but when I saw the look on your face I swore like some corny pussy that I’d be there whenever you needed me. No matter what was going on, I’d be there.”

He was running past Ian’s house, the place he’d gone to beat the shit out of the kid. God, how much had changed since then?

"And that time you came to juvie… Fuck, Ian, that really slayed me. The fact that you were this beautiful, smart kid who could have anyone he wanted, and you were out there waiting for me… If it weren’t for you, I probably never would’ve gotten out. Good behaviour… ha, I wanted to see you. Oh God, I wanted to see you the way I do now.”

Now he was bolting past the Kash and Grab, the place Ian had gotten a job for him. The place Ian had eagerly and sloppily learned to fuck like a real man, and the place Ian had held Mickey’s bleeding thigh while staring in shock up at the other guy he was fucking. Man, it’d felt good to see Ian upset because Mickey was hurt. 

“That time I beat you because you said I was gay and I loved you… Hearing you say it out loud and seeing the look on your face made me happier than you can fucking imagine, you know that? And then I hit you and… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please let me make it up to you? Let me spend my whole life making it up to you?” 

He ran past a house that was more dressed up than more for the South Side, and he remembered his heart in his throat when he’d leaned in to press a quick kiss into Ian’s mouth. It had been one of the most terrifying things he’d ever done, because in that moment he’d honestly given his heart away. 

“Hey, hey, stay on the line. Keep listening. Remember when I found you after you were gone for so long? Remember the kiss? I do. I’ll always remember it. Always! I want more like that, you hear?” 

Mickey was crying into the phone now, wondering how one person could make him feel so terrified. Wondering how a single person who didn’t have any really huge impact on the world could be his entire world.

“And when I came out to my dad? And the bar? Remember when, when I tried to help you—when you went into the hospital and—kissing you, being with you, hearing your voice… You really fucked me up, you know that, Gallagher? How the hell am I supposed to be Mickey Milkovich, neighbourhood tough motherfucker, when you’re in my heart? You’ve got yourself lodged so far in there, somehow, that you’re poisoning me. My blood, my heart, my soul… you’re in ‘em all. So if anything happens to you… You just… you’re everything to me, Ian.” 

Mickey stopped, staring at the tall boy who stood ten metres away. Blood washed his face and jacket and pants. It was everywhere. It was like the red from his hair had bled out all over him and turned him into some sort of bloody monster. Mickey’s phone clattered to the ground, shattering against the pavement. He didn’t care. He didn’t even feel himself running; one moment he was ten metres away, the next he was catching Ian as Ian slumped to his knees, brought his hands up to his face, and sobbed. 

Mickey had seen Ian manic and depressed. He’d seen him desperate, and happy, and horny, and worried, and all the emotions in the emotional colour palette. But he’d never seen Ian so broken before. Ian’s head was pressed into Mickey’s shoulder and the red seeped into Mickey’s skin as Ian’s sobbing turned into wailing, which then turned into a long scream of agony.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” 

Mickey reached up and cradled Ian like he was the last creature of his kind in the world and he was made of hand-blown glass. He rocked back and forth, his face smothered in Ian’s hair as he crooned whatever came to his mind, most of it making no kind of sense. Later on, he would never ever admit to half of the stuff he said, but at the time all he knew was that even though the blood on the outside wasn’t Ian’s, the jagged brokenness on the inside was. 

They must’ve sat like that for an hour before Ian cried himself into exhaustion and fell asleep on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey gingerly scooped him up to bring him home. There were stares and shocked murmurs and shouts for him to stop, but those people didn’t matter a lick to him. If a nuclear bomb killed them all, he wouldn’t care as long as his Ian was alive.

When they got home, he took Ian into their room, laid him on the bed. He was as gentle as possible while he stripped him, not wanting to wake him. He’d removed Ian’s coat and was removing his shoes when he started sobbing. What was he doing wrong, that the man he loved kept ending up hurt so much? Everything he’d been unsure about… had they all been wrong? Had they… 

No. Stop fucking thinking about it, Milkovich. Have a pity party later. He wiped his eyes furiously and stripped Ian completely naked, reaching up to gently ruffle his hair before leaving. He broke down once more in the kitchen while he was filling a bowl with warm water, but he managed to get himself under control before grabbing a cloth and going back into the room. 

His hands were as gentle as a breath of wind as he began washing the blood from Ian’s body. There was so much of it that the water was red after a few minutes. So he went and got another bowl. And another. And another. And he kept getting them until he washed all of the blood from his lover’s body, which was curled slightly as if Ian were trying to hold in some unknown pain. He let out a long sigh, looking up at the ceiling and wondering if maybe things would be different some other place or time. Like in the future, when some fucking genius like Lip had discovered the cure to bipolar disorder. Yeah, that’d be nice. Mickey fell asleep without meaning to, crouched beside their bed, holding onto Ian’s hand like the lifeline it was.

***

When Mickey next awoke, it was to the feeling of long, graceful fingers running through his hair. He blinked blearily awake, only coming to full consciousness at the sight of Ian gazing at him dazedly. 

“Hey, Gallagher. You okay?” 

He tried to keep his voice light, but it was full of worry and pain. Ian’s fingers ran down Mickey’s face to rest between his brows, and he touched a light finger between them. 

“Are _you_? Keep looking at me like that and you’ll have wrinkles before you’re thirty.” 

Mickey tried to laugh it off, but neither of them were buying each other’s nonchalance. Ian’s fingers moved back up to Mickey’s hair and he picked a point over Mickey’s head before speaking deliberately, as if he’d planned the speech and were reciting it off cue cards. 

“Monica called me last night. I didn’t want to wake you. She…” Ian’s cough wasn’t just a cough, but Mickey let him play it off as one. “…she killed herself. Um. Yeah, I mean like they couldn’t save her. She’s…” His fingers stilled in Mickey’s hair as he grinned waveringly over Mickey’s head. “…gone.” 

Mickey closed his eyes, nodding heavily. Now he knew why Ian was so upset—despite all his claims that he wasn’t Monica, Ian still watched her future for any clue of his own. If her future ended in suicide, Ian probably thought that was his future too. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Ian cut him off, looking Mickey in the eye and holding the gaze. Gallagher steel flashed in his eyes as he took a deep breath. 

“You once told me that if the barbed wire puppet master tried to pull me into a shark pit, I should call you. I don’t know if you remember that but… The first time I called you? When I was manic and made a booty call? The puppet master wanted me to enlist whether I got arrested for it or not. You’re the only reason I didn’t dance on its strings.” 

Mickey blinked in surprise, remembering how eager Ian had been that night. He’d honestly been prepared to do that? Ian held up a hand before Mickey could say anything else. 

“The second time? In the morning? The puppet master wanted me to go find a place no one would look and starve myself. You fed me.” 

Mickey shut his mouth. 

“The third time, I left the note so Lip would call you. The puppet master had me laying low, naked, until the hobos went by. Then I was going to steal a car and make some cash by selling off my body in a big city. Fake my death by pretending I jumped so I wouldn’t have to take my pills anymore. But I heard you calling my name, and I couldn’t do that to you. I just couldn’t.” 

Mickey bit back tears. 

“The fourth time, I told Fi about my pills and I told her to call you. I was starting to go manic and the puppet master thought I should protest taking my pills and go fuck whoever I wanted to. Then you showed up and made me realize fucking was nowhere near as satisfying as making love.”

Fuck the tears… they wouldn’t stay behind his eyes. 

“The fifth time, the puppet master wanted me to give up and crawl into bed forever. Stop everything, stop taking my pills. I acted as happy as I could, but inside it was a really, really bad day. Then you came home with flowers and made me laugh and the barbed wire fucker went away.” 

Ian smiled, wiping Mickey’s tears. 

“I called you the sixth time because Monica said ‘I’m going to kill myself’ and then she did. I called you because I wanted to show her that killing yourself isn’t the only option. I had another option. I had you. I’m upset with Monica and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her, because… well, she made a mistake. There’s always hope. She didn’t believe me, but fuck, Mick… if she would’ve met you, she wouldn’t have had a choice.” 

So. He hadn’t been wrong. He hadn’t been wrong at all. Somehow that made him cry more, and Ian cried with him. They cried together, but even that was better than doing anything alone 

“I love you, Mickey Milkovich.”

“And I fucking love you, Ian Gallagher.”

They laughed through their tears at the mouth on Mickey, and they both knew that from now on, it would be okay. There would still be heartache and pain in their future, but there would also be love and happiness. Through it all they would stay together, and because of that, they’d be okay. 

Of that Mickey was sure.

**Author's Note:**

> I love angst, but I love HEA endings more.


End file.
